The Improbable Accomplice
by Hallucifering
Summary: A little tidbit of a lot of hard work. Mimicks the tv show, but with different plot and anagonist. John and Sherlock have always had a soft spot for each other and I play up the emotions between them a bit. There are some things unspoken and not obvious so its up to you to inspect and analyze my meanings.


**The Improbable Accomplice**

"It's improbable. It's _impossible_ ! Entirely preposterous." Sherlock ranted as he flailed around the apartment. His sultry voice echoed throughout the rooms.

"Calm down, Sherlock. Acting like a child does you no good." John said to him, looking over the top of his book.

"Yes, and, as you should have previously noted, your attempts at insulting observations have no effect on these situations." Sherlock shot back as he paced.

John watched the shock of dark curls sway back and forth over the top of his book. He sighed in annoyance, laying the book on his chest. Sherlock only ever did this when he wanted to talk about something. He put on a condescending look whilst feigning interest.

"What seems to be the pressing matter?" John asked, blinking in his sarcasm.

"It doesn't make sense." He blathered to himself, lost in thought.

"_Sherlock_. What is it?" John pressed.

Sherlock stepped up and stood on the wooden coffee table, looking down at himself and noticing, for the first time, that he was still in his trench coat.

"They are genetically identical. It can't _be_." Sherlock said it with such assertion his head and hair shook. "One has the power to kill the other is a weak, frilly arrangement of carbon in an attempt to attract and repopulate." He waved his hands at the description of its mundaneness. "The concept that they would be constructed of the same compounds in the_ precise _order..." He trailed off.

Sherlock whipped his coat off in one swift motion and stepped off the table to place it on a hook. Sadly John was quite aware of what he was talking about. Flowers. Sherlock found himself in another slump between cases and had resorted to examining the genetic sequence of poisonous flowers in comparison to their harmless counterparts.

"Is this another lark like the 240 kinds of tobacco ash?" John asked, knowing full well it was exactly like that, not that Sherlock would agree.

"243, and that was purely for educational purposes, this is experimental, John. Entirely different."

John slightly rolled his head in response to an oncoming headache. He pinched the ridge of his nose.

"And who exactly was being educated? No one visits your blog, although who could blame them for not feigning interest in the most dead end subject." John bit out.

Sherlock grabbed his violin.

"I could say the same for that ludicrous blog of _yours_. Really John, a study in pink?"

John snorted. "It's become quite popular. People actually like _my _writings about your antics. Besides it's for my therapy."

"Oh please, your therapist is hardly one at all. She does you no good."

Sherlock stood behind the couch, and then turned, flopping backward with his violin held a safe distance from his body.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

Sherlock exhaled a deep and throaty sigh before responding.

"Doing something calming that will collect my thoughts."

Sherlock was lying with his legs awkwardly dangling off the back of the couch with his lanky frame and his head nearly touching the floor. His curls brushed the rug. A note sprang from the wooden instrument as Sherlock stroked the bow across the strings, his eyes closed. He quivered his index finger and the note wavered in sweet sharpness. John couldn't help but be a little grateful that Sherlock chose to release his frustrations through violin. Sherlock picked up pace and slashed the bow in a perfect rhythm as his fingers quickly changed to accommodate his composition. John's previous headache was ebbing and slowly lost strength as he listened to the unique music being played before him. John picked up his book and attempted to continue his reading bliss, but the music was just too distracting. While it was beautiful, it made him lose concentration entirely, so when Sherlock couldn't think properly neither could John.

"I'm going out." John said with an imperceptible sniff and grabbed his coat from the hanger.

His arms slid smoothly through the sleeves when the music suddenly stopped.

"Where?" Sherlock asked with little to no inflection.

"For a walk. No idea where." Johns attitude rose. "Need to do something calming that will collect my thoughts."

He adjusted his collar, popping it in preparation for the sprinkles coming down that he'd heard speckling the rooftop. John heard the quiet 'hm' that Sherlock breathed before he resumed his siren song. It was devastating, really. The fact that John could never think straight when Sherlock played was a little ridiculous, even to himself.

John took the stairs quickly to the door. He stepped out and surrendered himself to the bustling streets and drizzling rain of London. A woman, quite attractive to John, walked slowly up the street lightly touching the black spokes of the fence as she went. John walked along and fumbled for his phone to appear as if he had something to do besides staring at her generously displayed chest. He played with the keys and distracted himself but how could he ignore her when she stood directly in front of him? She tapped his shoulder.

"You looking for a good time?" She asked with a light and pretty accent.

He decided there was no way to avoid her now. His head flew up and he gazed deep into her teal eyes. She stood as if she was poised to attack, although John thought perhaps that was just the caution of Sherlock rubbing off on him. John scratched his head and forced himself to speak.

"I-um- well I suppose that depends on what you constitute as a good time."

Her eyes crinkled, but he hardly noticed because a sleek black car pulled up beside the curb.

"Oh for the _love _of-"

"Ah, John. It only makes it worse to fight it."

She opened the door, giving John a plentiful view of her behind in the tight red dress as she did. He immediately raised his head and met her eyes when she turned to him.

"Go on. In you go." She said, nodding her head toward the seat.

John sighed and looked around before stepping inside the car.

The car bumped along in silence for a long while. The sprinkle had increased to a solid rain. John twiddled his fingers. He took a breath as if to speak, but stopped himself. A minute later he took another breath just the same.

"You don't think I can still take you up on that good time, do you?"

A smile tugged at the corner of her red lips, but she didn't respond. John blew air out of his cheeks and sat back further than necessary, muttering to himself. They were always beautiful and different every time.

"Must he always do this?"

"I trust he's doing well, what with you around…. and Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft stated over the edge of his teacup.

John took a sip of his own tea. It was unlike any tea he'd had before and was quite strong. John focused back on Mycroft after inspecting the large ornate house that seemed to be a reoccurring haunt for him. At least this time Mycroft was kind enough to have him in his home, rather than an undisclosed location. John seemed slightly flustered.

"Yes! Yes. He's doing just fine. A little spat before I left but nothing I can't handle." John asserted, nodding and chewing his lip.

Mycroft smiled an odd grin. His light thinning hair sat poshly where it had been combed to. _He does have a rather large nose when he smiles. _John thought.

"The thing you must know with Sherlock is that when you get into a row with him he is _going _to win whether you let him or not." Mycroft disclosed.

John's eyes narrowed in thought. Then he shook his head briefly.

"What about Irene? She bested him and he was so fixated on her that he wrote songs for her." John disputed.

_And it was beautiful as always._ John added in his head.

"He may have been bested at first but honestly, that was just well played brute force. Besides he returned the favor in the end. He won."

Mycroft was right. Sherlock had traveled all the way to Pakistan to prove his superiority. John set his gold trimmed teacup down.

"Mycroft is there a reason you brought me here or were you simply lacking company?" John asked.

"It would be the former. I don't waste money on a cabbie just to have a friendly chat."

Mycroft was still somewhat smiling. To John it seemed he was perpetually amused. Mycroft rested his hands with his fingers forming a small tent and held them in front of his chest.

"I have been alerted to a sighting of Sherlock in a place he wouldn't usually be." Mycroft regarded him pointedly. "And he wasn't with you." He added. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about it would you, Dr. Watson?" His eyebrow rose.

John bit his lip and then shook his head.

"No. I wouldn't. We don't spend every waking moment together." John spoke too soon. He immediately realized there was a possibility they _did_ , in fact, spend every waking moment together. "When was it?" He asked.

"Right around the hour of eleven." Mycroft offered.

John replayed the events of the night previous. He'd been spent yesterday and went to bed early, most likely before eleven.

"I wasn't with him at eleven. I was in bed by then." John said matter-of -factly. "What did he do that you even care?"

Mycroft lifted his pointer finger.

"First, I am his brother; naturally I care. Second, I have an entire web of informants and they keep constant tabs on him. Moreover I won't disclose what he did until I've further investigated to insure that it was harmless."

John sat and soaked the information in for a moment.

"Is that…all you wanted me for?" He asked.

"I suppose, at the moment, yes it is. And also to warn you to keep an eye on him until this is done with."

John stood.

"If that'll be all then I'll be off." He said with a tip of his head, turning to leave.

"Oh, and Dr. Watson?"

John turned back with a false smile.

"Yes?"

"This was only between you and me. No need to alarm him." Mycroft said.

John nodded curtly, trying to disguise his annoyance at the whole exchange. He got to the end of the hall and he heard Mycroft.

"Give him my best."

John walked out the door.

"Yet you never think of giving _me_ any consideration." He grumbled.

The rain came down in sheets. _London_.He thought. John pulled his jacket up over his head and rushed to the car where the driver was immediately holding the door open for him. His white gloved hand was starkly contrasting to the signature black car.

The return seemed quicker, possibly because he wasn't sitting silently next to a gorgeous woman fumbling for something to say. He ran the short distance from the car to the door. The stairs were quick and John had soon found himself at his apartment door. It was open.

Sherlock sat on the couch holding the remote to his forehead with his eyes closed, clicking the channel button listlessly. John exhaled loudly.

"Good. I've heard too much telly decays the mind anyway or whatever that American saying is." John said sarcastically.

Sherlock's eyes flew open.

"That was quick."

John felt uncomfortable that he noticed his absence so acutely.

"Yeah. I-uh-I went to the tavern next to Speedy's." John said quickly.

"Lie." Sherlock accused, closing his eyes again, remote still in hand.

"Excuse me?" John asked.

"If you're going to give me a story at least think about it beforehand. You do know who I am." Sherlock's deep voice cut through John.

"How would you know I didn't fancy a drink? I surely could have gone." John said.

"Your coat. It's a dead giveaway. You would've needed to walk in the rain, since it's just down the street therefore calling a cab would be absurd, and your coat is unusually dry for such a walk in this rain." Sherlock didn't open his eyes. "Furthermore I can prove you haven't had so much as a sip of alcohol."

"Oh no, you've proven quite enough." John protested, not wanting Sherlock to suspect where he actually was.

Sherlock released the remote and moved steadily toward him, now gazing intensely into John's eyes. He gestured to his face.

"Your eyes aren't dilated in the slightest, which surely would be if you'd had any alcohol. You have a normal temperature," he grabbed John's hand, to which he fought the urge to draw back, "as I can neither see nor feel any flush. Lastly," Sherlock got quite close to John's face and dropped his hand back to his side. Sherlock sniffed lightly for effect, "there's not a single trace of alcohol on your breath. Spicy in fact."

Sherlock walked away with an impassive face. John couldn't tell if he was angry about him lying or if he'd simply found it to be an aspect to scrutinize. Sherlock stepped into the kitchen and grabbed the kettle. He filled it with water and put it on the stove, clicking the burner on.

"Tea?" John asked. "At this hour?"

"Tell him I don't appreciate him prying in my business. If he has an issue he should really consult me himself."

Sherlock walked by John briskly. John was incredulous.

"I'm sorry, I'm lost."

Sherlock stood staring out the window with his arms behind his back, held together by clasped hands.

"That does seem to be an unfortunate side effect to fictitious alcohol." Sherlock said, although the sarcasm didn't reach his voice. _Oh yeah, he's angry_. John thought. "I meant that I would like you to inform Mycroft I know what he's doing and it's not necessary. I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."

"Sherlock, you forget to eat and don't talk for days on end if I'm not here." John pointed out. Then he shook his head as if erasing the thought. "Anyway, how could you possibly know I went to Mycroft's? Unless, of course, it was a lucky guess."

John was becoming peeved and his face showed. Sherlock turned to face John although he didn't look him straight in the eyes as he spoke.

"You know it wasn't a lucky guess. I grew up with him and I know he's partial to the Starlight tea, imported specially from Mongolia. The spice is signature. I don't know why he insists on paying so generously for such a dreadful tea."

John huffed onto his hand in an attempt to pick up the scent Sherlock had, momentarily forgetting his anger. He didn't smell anything. Then he remembered the conversation again. He had let Mycroft down on a simple task he was given. He remembered his words. '_This was only between you and me_.'

"Sherlock, I can't control what your madcap brother does." John yelled. "Has it ever occurred to you-"

"Most likely." Sherlock interrupted.

John paused for a moment, controlling his temper.

"Has it ever occurred to you that people don't want you to analyze them every move they make? No, of course not, because you're Sherlock." John was blinking profusely in his anger. "Married to your work, divorced from your emotions. Caring for other people does not cross your mind."

With that John stormed into his bedroom without another glance at Sherlock.

A couple minutes later there was knock on the bedroom door.

"What now, Sherlock?" John called out, exasperated. He was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Some tea." Sherlock's voice floated through the door.

John rolled onto his side so his back faced the door.

"I don't need any tea, thank you. Making me a cuppa doesn't make things better." John said through the door.

Sherlock barged in the door, balancing a saucer and cup of tea as he did.

"Oh John, don't be sentimental. It's to offset the Starlight."

John sat up. "To what?"

"I'm sure Mycroft didn't mention it, but Starlight is quite intense. It contains chemicals that a first time drinker would not handle well. I brought you some chamomile to neutralize it or else tomorrow you'll have a nasty upset stomach."

Sherlock offered the cup to John and he hesitantly reached out and took it, looking down at the greenish brown liquid.

"Why would Mycroft give it to me knowing I would get sick?" John asked.

"If I hadn't known better I would've assumed it was to spite me, but I'm quite positive it was to send a message. Telling me that you were there. Testing to see if I would pick up on the tea in time."

John didn't exactly like being a centerpiece of brother rivalry. He took a sip of the tea. It was sweet and smooth. It had a splash of milk and the perfect amount of sugar for John. He was surprised Sherlock knew how to make his tea the way he liked it, but then again he did live with a man whose entire life revolved around 'paying attention'. Sherlock was awkwardly hovering over him.

"It's good. Thank you." John said in an attempt to release the tension, giving him a small smile and a nod.

Sherlock took in an unnecessarily large breath.

"You're welcome." He said as if wondering if that was the correct thing to say. Sherlock straightened and left the room.

"He's like an annoyingly observant mother." John muttered to himself before he took another sip of tea and leaned against the headboard. It was only seven at night but John took the rest of that time to read the book he had abandoned earlier in the day and go bed.

The next morning brought an onslaught of racket in the living room. John shot up out of bed, knocking the teacup over from the nightstand where he'd set it the evening before. He bashed through the door just in time to see Sherlock hanging a fake pig from the ceiling. The light was too bright for his eyes.

"_What are you doing!?_ " John screamed at Sherlock in disbelief, squinting at the room.

The tables were bare; their contents scattered along the floor. A couple chairs were turned over and giant hooks hung from the ceiling. Sherlock was standing on a chair, roping up the pig in preparation to hang it. He wore only a button up and tight pants, which was quite unusual for Sherlock.

"Comparing the wounds of multiple instruments." Sherlock said simply.

John stood with his mouth agape for a second.

"But dummies don't…" John started to say, but then he took a closer look at the pig. "Bloody hell. That things isn't fake."

John shook his head and wiped his hand along his face, trying to find an appropriate reaction, but finding none.

"Obviously it's not fake. Why would I use a dummy for wound inflictions?" Sherlock acted genuinely confused at why John would ask such a question.

"Why aren't you off frolicking with your precious flowers?"

Sherlock threw the rope through one of the hooks.

"Because they bore me."

Confusion riddled John and he mouthed words to himself, at a loss for a response. Sherlock strung another hook.

"Just yesterday they were the pinnacle of your entertainment." John pointed out.

"Fine." Sherlock said like a belligerent child. "I got stuck and _ruts_ bore me."

He pulled the rope through the last hook.

"But there are many other things you can do, Sherlock. Why a _pig _?" John asked.

"They're the closest to the human anatomy without confiscating an ape from a lab and I can't have an actual human cadaver because Mrs. Hudson gets anxious."

"That's not what I meant." John mumbled to himself. "And all this?" John asked gesturing to the mess about the room.

"Rickety chair. Took a stumble."

Sherlock hoisted the pig up and tied a knot to ensure it wouldn't fall. John just stared at the pig suspended from his ceiling. He closed his eyes and turned around, staggering back into his room to clean up the teacup he probably broke.

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs holding a bag of dry cleaning. She looked in the direction of the kitchen knocking on the door. Then her eyes rested upon Sherlock standing on the chair on the other side of the room.

"What have you gone and blast done to my ceiling now? Is that a pig?" She asked angrily. Her tone dripped with disapproval.

"It's for research Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock stepped down from the chair.

"You better take those out immediately. This is going on your rent, young man. And straighten up these chairs." She ordered and stomped off to her flat.

"Does everyone like to stomp off in anger around here?"

"It's not what we aim for, but it's where we end up." John said sarcastically. He had come back from the teacup ordeal.

"It's not my fault you can't handle a little experiment. It's a fact of life that we're all made of blood and guts and the like."

John sighed.

"It's not the blood and guts that's the problem, Sherlock. I'm a doctor. Remember? It's just the blood and guts in our living room that I have an issue with." John gestured to the hanging pig with distaste.

"I don't have a case. What else am I supposed to do?"

"Oh, I don't know. Wait in the chair for another poor sap to get bumped off?" John offered.

Sherlock sighed impatiently.

"But they don't die _quick _enough. Too much time in between to sit and twiddle my thumbs."

"Don't you worry, Sherlock. There will be a case soon enough." John said and turned toward the kitchen.

Ring ring. Ring ring.

Sherlock's phone rang.

"I couldn't have spoken any sooner." John said; his head inside the fridge.

He didn't even look at it before clicking the accept button. The beep told Sherlock he was connected to the call.

"Ah Lestrade, I see you've got something to distract you from the daily disputes." Sherlock said happily.

John could only hear one side of the conversation. Sherlock listened to him for a moment.

"Oh? Well that'll be interesting."

After a couple more seconds Sherlock hung up the phone. He turned to John.

"Well, are you coming or not?"

"What about the pig?" John asked, gesturing to the still hanging corpse.

"Oh, that. I'll take care of it when I get back. Right now someone's dead and someone's guilty. Isn't it lovely?" Sherlock asked.

"Absolutely splendid." John said sarcastically, grabbing his coat.

"So how long has she been here?" John asked.

Lestrade didn't bother turning to talk to John as he walked.

"We've guessed about twelve hours, but it's hard to tell when a body's been out in the sun like this. Speeds up decomp."

They approached the body. John let out a small noise of surprise. Her hands were cut off. They sat right next to her, severed. She had mousy brown hair and wore a black pantsuit with glasses. John guessed her to be about fifty. Nothing special stood out about her to John. Sherlock had a much greater interest in her. He squatted at her wrists and inspected them for a short time, and then moved around her hastily, pulling out his small magnifying glass. He looked at her from every angle possible. He lifted her sleeve and removed her glasses. Sherlock looked around.

"Where is her briefcase?" Sherlock demanded.

Lestrade looked back at his men.

"We confiscated it for evidence."

Sherlock stood up.

"I need it. Fetch it for me."

Lestrade gave John a look as if to say 'can you believe this guy?', and turned to retrieve the briefcase. His look in return was to say 'I know'. John stepped beside Sherlock.

"What have you got so far?" John asked.

"Well I have a lot of information, but too many ideas on the killer so far. Nothing concrete." Sherlock admitted.

Lestrade returned with the case. Sherlock took it from him and opened it.

"It's empty, why?"

"We found it that way." Lestrade informed him.

Another man walked up from behind Lestrade.

"She's a lawyer. Pantsuit, briefcase, heels. It all adds up." Anderson said.

"Anderson, don't talk. Assumptions are what make the system so unreliable. You're not a part of this investigation." Sherlock said, swiping his finger along the inside of the case.

"Am too." Anderson argued.

"Not when I'm here." Sherlock said and gave Lestrade a suggesting look.

Lestrade sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Anderson, go back to the station." He told him.

"But Inspector, I'm part of the team." Anderson protested.

"Though your face puts me off, so now you're not." Sherlock said, looking pleased with how freely he could insult him.

Anderson scoffed and stamped away.

"You really are difficult to work with when I break rules to let you near the body and then you antagonize my men." Lestrade stepped around her. "So who is she and who do you think killed her?"

"She's not a lawyer at any rate." Sherlock commented. "Her son abuses her, she's twice divorced, a math professor, and has an excess of cats."

"Yeah, that's great, but what does that say about who killed her?" Lestrade asked.

"That they're clever, but not for long." Sherlock responded, standing to his full height and looking up into the sky.

A plane flew directly overhead making it impossible to hear anything transpiring around them.

Lestrade looked up too.

"Well isn't that a curious thing." He commented.

Sherlock took a big breath.

"Yes, well I really should be off." Sherlock said, turning to leave.

"But what about this case? Isn't there any other information?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock turned back, barely making eye contact.

"Not at the moment. I have a pet to attend to." And with that he turned away.

John caught the glint in his eye as he winked at him. He followed Sherlock back to the street where he was hailing a cabbie.

"Not that anyone else cares enough to bother asking anymore, but how did you know those things?" John asked.

Sherlock sunk into the cab seats, followed by John.

"Simple. Starting with math professor. Clue one, the clothes. They were professional although not stagnant and starched like lawyers and most government occupations. But then you ask 'how do you know she wasn't an office worker?'. That's clue two. She had a prominent watch tan, which points to someone with a changing schedule. Not many cushy jobs are in need of a watch Leaves very few job possibilities. Lastly, the case. I'm sure the inspector thinks she was carrying around an empty case but she wasn't. It had a thick layer of graphite on the inside. Who handwrites their work anymore? Especially enough to rub off inside a case? No one, unless what you need to write isn't available on a program. Math symbols. Math professor."

The cab bumped along the road.

"And her personal life?" John asked.

"Long sleeves to cover different stages of healing bruises and glasses that were broken multiple times. Abusive son. " He explained.

"But how do you know it wasn't just a husband? She had rings." John disputed.

"Because they were ex-husbands. She wore two necklaces that were diamond, not to mention they matched the styles of two of her rings. They were set in gold and white gold. All her other jewelry was cheap. Her briefcase, cheap. Her outfit, knockoffs. I'd be willing to bet her watch was a knockoff. Why would a woman bother to buy and wear two entirely different sets of expensive jewelry unless it was from someone special? The rings were two rings bonded together as one, that represents a marriage. She'd been widowed two times. Why else would someone keep the rings unless the spouse left for an honorable reason like dying, rather than cheating? Also of which rules out the possibility of boyfriend. No one flaunts their failed marriages in an attempt to kindle a new one. That leaves the son."

Sherlock spoke quickly. So quickly John wouldn't have understood if he hadn't spent so much time deciphering the same kind of displays many times. John wondered how Sherlock knew she had children but at that point he figured there were multiple tells for that.

"Ah and I'm guessing the cats part was because of all the cat hair on her clothes?" John asked.

"Yes, the cats are probably a crutch for the emotional damage caused by the former. Much like stuffing feelings with cupcakes."

A little while later the cab stopped at the door of 221B and John clamored out of the car. He straightened and tugged at his shirt collar and turned around expecting Sherlock to be following him.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

Sherlock reached over, keeping his hand on the door.

"I need to test these." He said, flashing small vials at him and putting them back in his coat pocket.

"When did you bloody-" John started.

Sherlock pulled the door closed before he could finish his question. He wore a pleased smile while he spoke to the driver. The car pulled away and John stared after it. He shook his head and went in the flat. John trudged up the stairs and nearly had a heart attack upon becoming almost face to face with the ghastly corpse still hanging from his ceiling.

"_Damn _you Sherlock Holmes." He cursed as he leaned against the sofa and took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

"Oh! Sherlock. I didn't see you there." Molly said, focusing back on organizing her vials.

She finished, facing him. Her smile was nervous and hesitant. Whenever Sherlock got near her she never could keep a cool composure. Molly was kidding herself to think he didn't notice.

"What is it you need?" She asked.

"You." He responded.

Her eyes narrowed and she took a breath to speak, then hesitated. She breathed again.

"You-I-um… why do you need me?" Molly asked innocently, blinking profusely.

"Your microscope obviously. What else would I need you for?" He asked, eyes narrowing and his head tilting; ignoring the implications of his questions.

She smiled sadly and looked at the ground.

"Nothing. Of course." Molly whispered as she stepped out from behind the microscope, making way for him.

Sherlock moved over to the microscope and removed his coat. He pulled out the vials and dumped the substance inside one on a little dish. Carefully he plucked the dish and placed it under the light, leaning forward to look. Molly stood awkwardly, biting her lip.

"Well I-um…is there anything I can get you? Otherwise I'll just work on the bodies." She said nervously. She didn't let him respond before she spoke again. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I asked. I know you don't want anything. It just kind of came out. Sorry." She apologized again before walking away.

Sherlock removed his eyes from the microscope long enough to watch her leave.

After sufficiently testing multiple samples of dirt that he'd scraped from the heel of the woman Sherlock grabbed his coat and started to walk out the door.

"Wait."

Sherlock heard a voice from behind. When he turned around he saw Molly. She wasn't in her usual crisp white lab coat.

"Yes Molly?" He asked, sizing her up in her average day clothes. Her black coat draped over her arm. Sherlock hadn't usually seen her in any other clothes besides the dress she wore on Christmas

"I was about to leave when I remembered I was told to…to give this to you."

Molly extended her arm and held an object small enough to be enclosed in her palm. Sherlock got close to her, a little too close for Molly's comfort, and reached his hand toward hers. She hesitated; her mind blanking from the proximity.

"Well, what is it?" He asked, touching her hand to coax her to drop it.

"I-I'm not sure. It was delivered a couple of hours ago. This morning."

Molly placed the small object into his hand.

A box.

It was white with yellow ribbon gently wound around the edges holding the cover on. A large bow sat on top, larger than the actual box.

"I know it's not actually my business but is it alright if I see what's inside?" Molly asked.

Sherlock considered it for a moment.

"I suppose."

He pulled at the ribbon and let it fall to the ground. Sherlock lifted the lid and immediately dropped it.

"Who gave this to you?" Sherlock demanded. His voice was hard and commanding.

Molly, being put on the spot so suddenly, stuttered. She closed her eyes.

"I-I don't really know. It was a-a woman. B-blonde hair, blue eyes, angular face."

"Did she have a name?" Sherlock asked, anger coloring his question.

Molly opened her eyes and held her hands up in defense.

"N-no. She didn't tell me who she was."

"And you didn't bother to ask?" He accused.

"She told me she was a friend of yours long ago and was passing through town so she wanted me to give you this gift. I figured you'd know who she was."

Molly gestured to the box as she spoke. Sherlock sighed deeply.

"Very well. Thank you, Molly." Sherlock said and in one strong swoop he had his coat around his shoulders.

He fastened his scarf around the familiar curve of his neck and left swiftly. Molly tentatively approached the small box left on the table and peeked inside. Sherlock burst back in and grabbed the box, even picking up the fallen ribbon before he left again. It was quick, but she had caught what was in the box. Between the white edges sat a single yellow flower. A buttercup.


End file.
